


he is not soft, but he is good

by biiitchofCambridge



Series: deuxième [3]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Arishok duel, Blood Magic (Dragon Age), Blue-Purple Hawke (Dragon Age), Boys Kissing, Confessions, Cuddles, Emotional Baggage, Fenris Can Read, Gang shenanigans, Happy pride month, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kissing, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Mentioned Depressive episode, Post Act Two, Starting the healing process, Unresolved Trauma, cause ya know blood mages do that, have some MLM!, mentioned gore, mentioned nightmares, mlm, you know the one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:16:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24497815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biiitchofCambridge/pseuds/biiitchofCambridge
Summary: “We don’t choose our demons,” he said. They sat like that for an eternity. Garrett wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Relationships: Fenris/Male Hawke
Series: deuxième [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1703305
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	he is not soft, but he is good

**Author's Note:**

> ok so you know when you do the Arishok duel & he holds u up over his head impaled on one of his dumb swords and you just sit there like "wow I'm a fucking idiot why do i choose to duel this asshole"
> 
> that would be pretty traumatic my man
> 
> also: read [they are not children anymore](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23488267/chapters/56318596) so this will all make sense. tanks all :)

Garrett Hawke was scared of exactly three things; one, rats. They were gross and made weird noises and had freaky little hands that made his back tingle with disgust. Two, someone he loves hurting themselves at his expense; he hated himself for how Mel got her scar, even though he never asked her to go templar hunting. Even though she chose to start that fight. He knew it wasn’t his fault but it would always feel like it was. Three, he admits rather ashamedly, horns.

Garrett has night terrors every night _ for an entire year  _ of just  _ horns _ . Some beating into his chest so hard he forgets his lungs, some sitting in the softness of his belly. The scar aches when it’s cold out, so much so that he can’t really feel that patch of skin. He doesn’t say anything, either, doesn’t really want to start a fuss. Since Mother died, he hasn’t seen much reason to talk about his dreams-- Mel’s always busy with the kids and the gang has their lives to attend to. He might be the Champion, but the people he likes best always seem to seek Mel out before him-- his fancy pedestal has done nothing but holds him from those who need him most.

Ever since his bender after his Mother’s funeral, Fenris has been different. He lets him take his hand and he doesn’t look away when his shirt rides up when he stretches. Garrett tries to not get too hopeful about it, though-- the last time he did, Fenris stopped talking to him for months. He tries not to think about that night, how his brands burned his lips and made him feel a little giddy like he was lyrium-drunk. But he still takes his hand and finds a reason to stretch all the time, and he especially stays into the all-hours of the night to get blind drunk with him.

One such night, as they are the only pair left in the Hanged Man, they stumble up to Fenris’ mansion-- he wanted to show Garrett how his reading had improved, and Garrett didn’t want to go home and listen to Mel tease him all the next morning about his headache. That’s the excuse he made for himself, anyways.

Fenris does not lock the door, and he doesn’t bother with cleaning up the front room of its long-rotted corpses, but as they travel to the heart of the mansion the floors become cleaner and the world grows warmer.

His bedroom is plain and tidied; the hearth is plugged full of crackling wood and his bed is freshly made. He has a desk that is obviously of fine make, but it contains only the essentials and a neat stack of books stolen from various places. For example, there is a copy of  _ The Life of Shartan _ that Mel pilfered from an Alienage dustbin, another book about elves that Mel and Merrill got together on and made; Fenris struggled with little print and understood better with pictures, something he and Carver could both agree on. Mel, naturally, was also pretty good at drawing, so she helped illustrate around Merrill’s neat-but-large print of a simplified book. A copy of every single book Varric wrote is stacked in publishing order and a copy of Isabela’s favourite dirty book resides on the bottom. There was also the Book of Light, stolen directly from the Grand Cleric as a prank by Mel and Sebastian-- the pair gave it to Fenris for safekeeping, but they never came to collect it for a return, and Fenris never brought it up. Garrett knew he loved reading from its fine pages; he’d caught him stealing words like breaths, snapped the book shut when he was caught. Once Mother learned of his interest in nice things, she began to buy him  _ better _ than basic clothing, offered the fine pastries that she bought from the nicest bakers, brought out the best wines and brandies they had at the Estate.

Like the tunic he’s wearing now? With its careful silver threading on the soft black fabric? It made the white of his hair stand straight out against the soft gold of the room. Cohesive in a sense, yet with his hopelessly beautiful polarity, he stood out in his blending. Unforgettable in his simplicity. The freckle in a dark eye; once you saw it, it never disappeared. 

Garrett sat down on Fenris’ bed, watched Fenris go to his desk and pull a small sheet of paper from one of the books-- a little book of poems that Garrett had given him on an anniversary of his escape. He was a little pink at the ears and Garrett glowed with satisfaction; no one made Fenris blush. 

“I wrote you a little letter,” he coughed. Garrett grinned, leaned back on the bed and patted the spot beside him. 

“Well, cuddle up and read it out,” Garrett slurred. Fenris padded over to the bed and slipped to his side, hip-to-hip, thigh-to-thigh. His legs were warm, the leggings a slippery fabric, almost silky. Garrett stayed his itching hands. 

Fenris coughed, then began,  _ “I am not afraid of many things,” _ he paused,  _ “but when I saw you with a sword in your guts, I knew fear.” _ Garrett sat up. 

_ “I’ve been scared my whole life, but when I’m with you, there’s not much reason to be scared. Funny how a mage makes me feel that way. Perhaps it’s Sebastian’s Maker that wills it so; perhaps it’s just my luck. But you make me feel safe, and I’d hate to see you hurt.” _

Fenris took a tiny peek up at Garrett, saw the tears in his eyes,  _ “And I am sorry for walking out on that day. You mean a lot to me.” _

There was a pause. “You have excellent spelling,” Garrett remarked. Fenris gripped the paper, his shoulders shaking just a bit. He did not look up again. 

Garrett tucked his hand under Fenris’ proud chin and pushed it up; Garrett’s other hand cradled his sharp jaw, rubbed the grinding bone to smoothness. Fenris stared at his lips, felt how cold his fingertips were. 

He kissed first, gently and hesitantly. Garrett smiled into it, moved his hands to the sides of Fenris’ neck. Fenris’ arms encircled Garrett’s broad shoulders, the letter still bunched in one hand. 

When they parted, Fenris’ eyes were bloodshot. He does not cry. Garrett knows this, but he doesn’t care. He’ll cry enough for both of them. Fenris reaches and thumbs Garrett’s tears away. 

“I’m glad you feel the same way,” Garrett smiled. Fenris laughed. 

“Please don’t go duelling another Arishok,” He begged, his words slightly slurred. His eyes were getting sleepy. 

“I make no promises, but I’ll listen this time,” Garrett teased, rubbed his eyes with one hand. Fenris kissed him again. It tasted like wine and the meat pie they shared with Sebastian after their third round of whiskey. 

“Sorry that you cried,” He apologized. Garrett laughed. 

“You’re too sweet, but I cry no matter what,” Garrett leaned into Fenris’ space, settled his hands to brace himself against Fenris’ shoulder. Their thighs and hips were still glued together. 

“I know, it was just a formality,” Fenris sighed drily. Garrett cackled as he laid his head on Fenris. There was a pregnant pause, one Fenris leaned into.

“I’m afraid of Qunari,” Garrett confessed suddenly. “I know it’s foolish of me to think every Qunari is like the Arishok, I know it’s wrong, but it’s the horns. They terrify me.” He said his words too fast; they stumbled over each other. 

“I feel like such an asshole too because Mel’s kids are ‘nari and I shouldn’t be afraid of my  _ nieces, _ but once I see their little horns I get nervous. Am I a shitty uncle or what?”

Fenris wrapped his arm carefully around Garrett’s large shoulders and pressed a tentative kiss to his crown. 

“We don’t choose our demons,” he said. They sat like that for an eternity. Garrett wouldn’t have had it any other way. 

They were laying side-by-side on the bed. The blankets were thick and perhaps a tad musty, but Fenris didn’t have a hardworking maid or a tidy servant, so Garrett didn’t hold it against him. He remembers when he had nothing but two sheets and a stolen curtain for blankets. 

Fenris was higher up on the pillows, a hand stuck looping Garrett’s enigmatic curls. He was the fairer of the older siblings, and his curls were loose and springy; with his hair long like this, the curls faded to a wavy mess that he kept slicked back with oil and the Maker’s guidance (or that’s what he says to Sebastian on a good hair day). 

“I know that my fear is not right.” Garrett said. “I shouldn’t judge anyone on the actions of another. And I’m sure the Arishok had his reasons.”

Fenris chuckled, “And getting a sword stabbed into your vitals is just part of the process?”

Garrett laughed. His hands traced the thick line from over his shirt. He could find the scar easier than anything else on his body. It was the center of himself, the same way that Mel’s jagged scar across her nose was. 

“You’re too kind to those who hurt you,” Fenris said. Garrett shrugged, shot Fenris an eye roll. 

“Don’t get angsty on this tender moment,” he teased. He glided one hand over Fenris’ soft stomach. He was skinny, yes, and roped in muscle, but his belly was soft from the food and care Fenris found in Kirkwall. When he wasn’t eating with the Hawke family, he was eating with one of the gang. 

“Perhaps I’ll smoulder instead?” He jibbed. Garrett tightened his hold and rolled to face Fenris; their breaths were seconds apart. 

“I’m not kind, I’m understanding.” Garrett whispered. “I’d never hold that night against you,” Fenris stared at his mouth for a moment. 

“I am still unravelling myself,” Fenris whispered back. Garrett shrugged. 

“And I have a deathly fear of horns. We’ll heal together.” Garrett teased. Fenris snorted, pressed his face a little closer. Garrett kissed him this time, rested his icy hands on Fenris’ hot face. Fenris offered his mouth, wanting to deepen the kiss. He laughed, licked at Fenris’ lips before he snuggled closer, buried his face into Fenris’ neck to tongue at his jugular. 

“What are you searching for?” He asked. The fire crackled softly. It needed to be banked again. 

“A purpose,” Fenris said, grated his blunt hands on Garrett’s shoulders. He tugged at his shirt, rucked it up over his abdomen. Garrett had always been skinny, but as he aged he grew thicker. Fenris glided his fingertips up Garrett’s hairy stomach, slid his thumb over the carving of bone on his small hips. Garrett kissed him sleepily. 

“Keep me warm for tonight?” Fenris asked hesitantly. The only sound was the fire crackling in that moment.

“You’ll let me?” Garrett answered in question. He looked a little appalled, but more hopeful than anything else. Fenris half-way chuckled, kissed the doubt from Garrett’s consenting lips.

“Well, if you’ll have me.” Fenris sighed. Garrett shimmied up to his level on the bed, snuggled in close as he kissed him sweetly on the forehead. 

“Lemme go bank the fire and take my pants off,” Garrett sighed as he rolled away. 

Fenris watched his swinging motions; he tucked the firewood tight into the hearth, whispered a little spell and magicked the ashes away as the fire grew too hot for a moment-- Fenris’ anxiety crawled up his stomach, but it died on his ribs when the magic sighed away, seeped into the coals that crackled merrily. Garrett plugged the fireplace again and turned to Fenris, winked gaudily. He unlaced his trousers and slid them from his long, freckled legs. Fenris counted the little cuts, the little slices afflicted by others and the ones along his arms that he did himself. They were mostly measured, but some were ugly and nearly mindless with placement. One such one crawled along the top of his wrist, slashed along the bone diagonally to his lower forearm. Fenris knew what that one was from. He scooted to the edge of his bed and grabbed his hand, pulled him closer so he could inspect the scar that saved his life.

Fenris remembers the battle in vivid detail, but only the battle. The day had been like any other, and they were the darkest days he had, the ones where he didn’t remember if he ate or what day it was or when he needed to meet people-- but he remembers the blood running from his shattered leg. The dragon’s dying roars were sounding like bells as Mel sawed its jugular from its body, as if that would somehow help Fenris.

Isabela was holding his shoulders down as Garrett straddled his thighs, inspecting the twisted leg with a grim aura. Fenris can hear the knife slicing across his skin, how the life drained from the howling dragon and wept from Garrett’s arm and into his leg, healing it well enough from it’s jagged, twisted and rolled pieces into the clean, one break that it needed to be.

Fenris did not talk to him for three days after that-- he felt filthy, like the magic had cursed his leg. But how it held, how Garrett had saved his life--

Fenris pressed his lips to Garrett’s purpled scar. Garrett chuckled.

“Fuckin’ sap,” as he crawled into the bed, pulled the sheets up as Fenris shimmied underneath them. Garrett punched the pillow twice, tucked the sheets into his side and grinned awkwardly at Fenris. He laughed at the absurdity of this domesticity. 

But Fenris felt at bay. His brands did not itch his skin; Garrett was his cooling balm, and he had soft skin, too. Nothing abraded him, not even his barely trimmed beard. He rolled over, let Fenris look at the weak point of his neck. Fenris wrapped his arms around the much larger man and cuddled close to him, kept the soft linens tugged close to their faces.

Garrett held one of his hands in his own, rubbed at his little errant scars. Fenris kept his cheek pressed against Garrett’s ear, his nose in line with his sharp,  _ Hawke  _ cheekbones. And they slept the whole rest of the night and some of the day, too. Just because.

**Author's Note:**

> happy pride month! sign petitions for Black Lives Matter n stand up for the people who helped pull the queer community out of the closet. even if you can't afford it yet, please sign!! it takes like three seconds (i just signed like ten or something in a matter of two minutes)
> 
> also: mlm cuddles are valid. stop expecting dudes to do each other first. let em snuggle <3


End file.
